


sugar cookies

by ssolaris



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coping, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, but also he's baby, kinda just a vent fic, this one's kinda sad sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssolaris/pseuds/ssolaris
Summary: Death is only human.So why does he keep running from it?
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	sugar cookies

**Author's Note:**

> sfjdkgs uh so this work is pretty personal to me. i recently lost my grandfather and i think i just needed an outlet and figured hey, peter's dealing with grief too, maybe i'll project on him for a bit. so now this is a thing.  
> uh obviously this fic focuses on topics of death/loss/mourning, so if that's upsetting to you, maybe steer clear. but anyway enjoy

Peter didn’t have many traditions.

He had a few, which he clung to, and loved dearly. They were far from atypical, and they were _special,_ but not anything special.

And it’s not that he grew up poor. He did, somewhat, but it wasn’t like he was homeless. He stayed with his aunt and uncle, in their dinky little two-bedroom apartment with only one bathroom, but they made it work, and it was fine. It had been fine, for all of his life. Even without Ben, it was fine. They were alright. May worked her fair share of overtime hours and Peter has certainly worked his fair share of minimum wage jobs, and they had done fine. They got by with a roof over their head and home-cooked meals and a dinky old television to watch lame soap operas on every night.

Tony helped, of course. Ever since he took Peter under his wing— _really_ under his wing and not just before the Vulture, when they hardly spoke—things had looked up. And once May found out the truth about Spider-Man, things became immensely easier. No more secrets to hide about why Peter constantly lost his backpacks or why he often came home with cuts and bruises.

Despite their best efforts, Tony helped. And they always insisted they didn’t need it but Peter knew Tony too well to know that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. And he seemed to settle into a comfortable area that was just right—not too overbearing. Just enough where they didn’t have to scrape by paying monthly rent every time, and May didn’t have to work so many extra hours. It was well appreciated by the Parker residence, and they made sure Tony knew that.

Beyond financial struggles, though, Tony helped in other ways. As he bonded more with Peter everyday they fell into a routine, and they learned more about each other; developed their own intricate quirks that bounced right off one another in a glorious way. It came to a point where Friday nights were specially reserved for them: Peter would head over to the Avengers Compound, and they’d tinker around for hours in Tony’s workshop, often pulling all-nighters.

And then it grew into something more. They weren’t just days for busy work and innovation, even if that was still the bulk of it. Saturdays were _movie nights,_ because as much as Peter boasted his knowledge of ‘old movies’ Tony could clearly see how uneducated he still was—and how many classics he had yet to be introduced to.

Then they became _baking nights,_ too, because Peter was absolutely appalled to discover how incompetent Tony was in the kitchen beyond a simple omelet or some pizza rolls. Peter, who was the unofficial-official-assistant-chef to the legendary Aunt May, definitely needed to teach him a few things.

So every Friday, Peter went upstate right after school, more often than not catching Tony in the middle of upgrading his armor or some new gadget or software, and after hours of work they’d make their way to the kitchen and flip on the movie of the week, handpicked by Tony, while Peter walked him through whatever new recipe he had prepared for them.

So, he supposed, he had created a new tradition—one that was different than the others.

However, as the holiday season rolled around, just over a year after the homecoming incident, Tony decided it wasn’t enough.

It started over a random phone call one day while Peter was on patrol. It was a Tuesday night and Queens was officially beyond chilly, but sprinting across skyscrapers and the added warmth from the built-in suit heater compensated well enough. The call started in the first place because they had to cancel their plans for the prior Friday, as Peter had gone to a robotics tournament for the weekend.

After some quick small-talk and Peter’s gushing about how well he did in the tournament, though, the conversation shifted.

Tony sighed into the speaker, and he bet he was probably exhausted. _“Well, kiddo, I’m thinking that won’t be the last time we’ll need to cancel. Pep’s already put me down for a thousand Christmas parties and galas and all that bull. I’m almost completely booked for the next month.”_

Peter shrugged, even though Tony couldn’t see it, swinging around the corner of a building and grazing his fingers along the frosted windows. “It’s cool, stuff happens. That’s what you get for being a billionaire superhero.”

 _“Actually,”_ Tony said, _“A small handful of said events are specifically superhero-related. No pressure, but Spider-Man is definitely welcome to make an appearance at some if he’d like to.”_

He considered briefly. It sounded like a decent idea, making a good impression as a new hero on the rise—but he also knew himself; how awkward he felt around big crowds, especially ones he felt obligated to impress. “Uh, yeah, maybe.”

_You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, Pete. Just putting that offer out there. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of Christmas parties of your own to attend to.”_

Peter swung up to a shorter building, landing on the edge of its roof and pausing to catch his breath. He crouched down, peering at the scurry of New Yorkers below. “Not really, to be honest.”

 _“Really?”_ Tony asked, and it was hard to tell if he was being condescending or genuinely surprised. _“Life-of-the-party Peter Parker didn’t get invited to a Christmas party this year?”_

He pursed his lips. “Not much of a party person, I guess. I mean, I dunno, definitely crashing Flash’s in a few weeks. I’ll probably hang out with Ned and MJ too, at some point, but…”

Tony wavered momentarily, and then clicked his tongue. He almost seemed guilty, which was stupid, because he didn’t need to be, Peter was perfectly content with not going to parties. _“Any fun holiday plans with May? You only have a few more weeks of school before winter break.”_

“Uh,” Peter started, absently pacing along the edge of the roof. “I dunno, the usual stuff. We’ll put up the tree we keep in storage and some other decorations. We normally watch cheesy movies on Christmas Eve together, open presents in the morning, you know.”

Tony made a gagging noise. _“God, pathetic. Okay, one, you guys are absolutely spending a night with the Starks so you can see some real Christmas spirit with a real tree. Two, that’s so bland. I’m totally gonna reinvent your Christmas agenda because lemme tell you: pathetic.”_

A smile found its way to Peter’s face despite himself, and he crossed his arms. “Mr. Stark—”

_“Nope! No arguments, too late, it’s already happening. I’ve already placed an order on like, five gingerbread house kits. And I just got a full set of Santa hats and reindeer antlers. Oh, great! It says they’ll be here in three days. These shipping companies are so nifty. Hear that, Peter? You’ve got three days to get jolly before I break into your home and transform it into a winter wonderland, alright?”_

He stifled a laugh. “Wha—”

_“It’s a school night, Pete, get some rest. I’ll see you soon.”_

And then he hung up, and that was that.

* * *

He thinks it’s fine. That he isn’t dealing with it anymore. He thinks—well, if he put thought into it, he’d probably think, _that was pretty easy and painless,_ except he isn’t really thinking about it at all. It hurts, a constant ache in his chest, but he’s so quickly swept up into school and life and the entire planet’s recovery to really have the _time_ to think about it.

When it first happens, it isn’t fine. Peter cries and screams and secludes himself, and lets May hold him in her arms for a long time. The next morning, he still hurts, and he takes the day to himself to rest. The next day goes by a little easier because he’s spending the day at Ned’s house, reuniting with him and his family and enjoying dinner there.

Before he knows it it’s been a week. It blurs by so fast he can’t even process it until it’s over. And then it’s been two weeks, a month, three months, and then—and then it’s been nearly half a year, and Christmas is right around the corner. It’s only five days away, in fact.

He doesn’t put much thought to it in the span of all those months. Of course the schools are accommodating to all the kids that got blipped, but they also want them to hurry along and do what they can to assimilate back into society. And he’s still Spider-Man, even when he briefly considers taking a break because god knows he should probably take one. So if he’s not in class or doing homework, he’s patrolling, or he’s spending time with his friends, or he’s with May.

Peter doesn’t like being alone, nowadays. The only exception is when he’s Spider-Man, but that’s different, because he doesn’t feel alone. He feels, as he swan dives off skyscraper after skyscraper, embraced in a warm, tender hug from New York itself. He feels a little numb, too, swept in gushing winds that roar in his ears and the cacophony of traffic down below as he swings by. But he doesn’t feel alone, ever, anymore. It’s better that way, he thinks.

It hits him one day, though, when he isn’t really expecting it.

It started last night, after he got back from patrolling around the city for a few hours. He settles on the fire escape outside his bedroom window, still in his suit exempt from his mask, which he has beside him on the metal grating. Normally he heads right into the apartment when he gets back to eat dinner with May, but he gets a phone call from Happy before he can.

They chat for a while, because he hasn’t spoken to Happy in a few weeks since they’ve just been so busy. He haggles him like an overprotective parent, asking how his tests and his friends and May and superhero-ing are going. Peter tells him it’s all going fine, and he’s fine, and he’s about to go eat dinner. Happy seems to take the hint and tells him, okay, goodnight, all talk to you later kid, why don’t you go relax tonight? Take a breather, maybe? Actually, he says, maybe you should try taking a break from Spider-Man just for the day, tomorrow. Stop and smell the flowers for a change.

Peter tells him goodnight, and he hangs up. For a moment, he just lingers there, though, his legs swung over the fire escape as he gazes up at the honey sky, split in half from the dark silhouettes of buildings and towers along the horizon. He inhales, and is terrified by how quiet everything seems now.

Hurriedly, he sits up and scurries inside to eat dinner with May.

The next day is a Friday. He manages to get through his classes, feeling particularly drained today. After school he automatically moves to the alley across the street he always rushes to, and ducks behind a dumpster to change into his suit. It fits him snuggly, and Karen greets him cordially as a warmth spreads across his body from the suit heater.

Instantly, Peter races up the side of the building beside himself until atop the roof, and goes to stand at the edge and peer down below at the city streets.

He is on the verge of pouncing off and launching his webs, but then he—stops. He remembers his call with Happy last night, about taking a break today. About resting today.

Unsurely, he sits down, dangling his feet over the edge and staring up at the clear blue skies. He’s been feeling particularly overworked, lately, so sure, why not take a break? It couldn’t do any harm.

So Peter leans back until he’s staring straight up, his back against the cool concrete roof. Clouds drift by sparsely, speckled with pigeons. He breathes, in and out. The scent of hotdogs waft into his nose. He rests his hands on his chest, and lets the tension leave his shoulders; all of his muscles slacken.

He drifts for a while, in a daze. Maybe he’ll take a nap, but he doesn’t really know. Today is about relaxing and taking time, just like Happy told him to.

Peter probably does end up dozing off, because suddenly he blinks open his eyes and there’s a sour taste in the back of his mouth, and the sky seems dimmer and cloudier. He feels fuzzy and disoriented, so he sits up, glancing around, piecing together his memories. It takes him a moment to recall if he had school today or not, and after a moment he decides that he did, because today is Friday, and he just took that calculus test in third period this morning.

It’s Friday, he realizes with delight. And then shock ripples through him because _oh god, it’s so late, he needs to get going to the Avengers Compound because Tony’s going to be waiting for him—_

And—

… And.

Oh.

_Oh._

Suddenly, Peter’s head feels stuffed with lead, a cold feeling trickling down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. He staggers to his feet dizzily, gasping for air.

_Tony is—fuck—_

It hits him, then, all too painfully: this year, Tony is gone.

This year, Tony will not be spending Christmas with him.

* * *

“Oh my god, Peter,” he heard from across the room, and when he glanced up he saw Tony shaking his head in grave disappointment at him. And then the man turned to May, who was sifting through her bag of tree ornaments, trying to find which one to hang next, waving his arms urgently.

From the kitchen, Peter grinned uncertainly. “What is it?”

“Are you sure Aunt May taught you how to bake?” Tony asked in place of an answer, ambling over towards his apprentice to peer over his shoulder. Peter was busy squeezing food dye into the little bowls of frosting he’d laid out, so they could paint the cookies that were almost done in the oven. “That is—oh god, May, this kid’s gonna poison us.”

Over by the tree, barely paying attention, she sighed melodramatically. “What’d he do this time?”

Tony made a retching face. “The food dye. Peter, that is not green frosting, that is a bowl of _vomit._ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he shot back, furrowing his brows.

“Look how much you’ve added!”

Peter looked at him with a deadpan. “Oh, so you’re a professional chef now? Mister _I-just-learned-how-to-fry-an-egg-last-weekend?_ ”

In a very agitated squint, Tony shook his head. “I’m not saying that, just that the amount of color you’re adding to that frosting is inhumane. I swear, this kid’s planning to kill us.”

Just then, the door to the Parkers’ apartment swung wide open, completely unabashed without a single knock to precede it. In stepped Peter’s two good friends, Ned and MJ; Tony didn’t know them particularly well, but they were nice kids, and he appreciated the influence they had on Peter. They—well, really just MJ, because Ned was kind of a reckless idiot too—helped keep him out of danger when Tony wasn’t able to.

Despite how brazenly Ned entered, hugging a large bag in his arms with a large smile on his face, he still faltered only briefly upon seeing Tony, stars in his eyes. Quickly, he regathered himself and cleared his throat. MJ entered a little less boldly, but smiling nonetheless.

“We have arrived with eggnog!” Ned declared, as he placed the bag onto the counter beside Peter. “What was that about murder?”

Peter’s face scrunched up, and he stopped to glare at everyone and place his hands on his hips. “I—I’m not— _shut up!_ ”

“Something about too much food coloring,” May said, still busy with the tree ornaments.

MJ made a face, leaning over the counter to get a good look at Peter’s work. “Jesus, Parker, are you trying to kill us?”

Tony smirked knowingly. “I like her. Good friend choice, Pete.”

He was shot a smoldering glance before the kid turned back to his dye. Tony felt like he was adding a little more red to the second bowl than he had green to the first, specifically to spite him. Ned whipped out his phone from his pocket, typing hastily onto it before quickly skimming over whatever appeared on his screen.

“According to Google, it seems pretty harmless. People don’t seem to really know if it’s poisonous, but I think it’s fine.”

“You know,” Peter said, “ _Anything’s_ poisonous if you consume too much of it. Hell, milk could be poisonous if you tried hard enough.”

MJ crossed her arms. “Very cynical of you.”

He rose a brow at her. “That’s coming from _you?_ ”

The oven blared out to them all that the cookies were done baking, and suddenly they were all consumed in the vague aroma of sugar and vanilla and warmth permeating through the kitchen.

Tony held up his hands in compromise, grabbing some oven mitts and extracting the baked goods. “Alright, enough squabbling. It’s time to paint.”

Ned was already grabbing cups from the cabinets to pour his eggnog which he so excitedly brought along with him. He filled each one a reasonable amount, except for one, which he filled completely to the brim, before bringing that cup to his lips and inhaling the beverage like it was a drug.

MJ grinned at the sight, and Ned seemed ready to defend himself, before she said, “Leeds, you better give me a glass twice as big as yours,” to which he happily obliged.

Finally they all settled around the counter, with all the deeply saturated frostings and sprinkles and cookies and tall glasses of eggnog—except for May, who was whipping around the apartment at lightning speed as she hung up decorations all over the walls and on the Christmas tree.

Peter dipped a finger into his blue frosting and licked it, pondering the flavor like he was some kind of wine critic. “I’d say it turned out pretty good.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Unsanitary.”

Peter narrowed them right back. “Germaphobe.”

“Do I need to put you two in time out?” May called out from some unseen place, which was kind of funny, Peter thought, like she was some ethereal being judging them from the heavens—or, the upstairs bathroom.

Tony lifted his eggnog up to him, then; an olive branch. “To new traditions?”

Begrudgingly (although not really, he just liked pushing his buttons) Peter lifted his own glass and clinked them together. “To new traditions.”

* * *

His chest feels tight.

Not tight like when he’s wearing his suit, and it’s in the dead of summer, and the spandex is just too uncomfortable and sweaty. Not like when he’s squeezed into the back seat of Ned’s mom’s minivan with three other people at once. It feels like—like when the Vulture caught him off guard and brought down the roof, and he got trapped under all that rubble, and it was crushing him, and he couldn’t breathe, only cry and—

He’s not. He’s not—Peter isn’t _trapped_ anymore. He’s swinging through the city, even though he shouldn’t be, even though he promised Happy he’d try taking a break today. Swinging is… liberating, in a way, and he likes the coolness that pierces through the fibers of his suit with each dip, and the way the blood rushes from his head to his toes and back to his head as he flips and twirls through the air. He likes hearing the distant, buoyant laughter of children and the constant hum of car engines down below.

So why—why is it so hard to breathe right now?

He’d convinced himself, for all these months, that it is fine. That he is fine, and that it’s okay to feel sad but that it doesn’t matter because he _isn’t_ sad anymore, he’s moved on already because he’s too busy to feel sad in the first place.

The suit’s heat presses against his bare skin and it should be keeping him warm, but he just feels so cold now, so shaky, so unstable. He swings fast and thoughtlessly, no time for tricks or hanging down low to high-five some pedestrians. His breathing is quick and shallow and the city blurs around him in a swash of gray, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe._

When Peter finally stops, it’s by the waters, and he’s staring across the harbor at Liberty Island. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his fists by his sides, and then sucks in a trembling breath and brings up one hand to clutch his chest. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Maybe just trying to remember if he still has a heartbeat.

He doesn’t really know why he’s here. His body just—brought him here, and now this is where he is, standing in the middle of a sidewalk. And he almost forgets he’s Spider-Man right now, until someone beside him says something like _wait, are you actually Spider-Man? Can I get a picture?_ And Peter mutters something like _I’m sorry, now’s a bad time,_ and he starts closer to the beach.

There’s a ferry drifting just out, towards the island. Instinctively, he fires a web and ends up atop the boat, floating lazily to its destination. Peter exhales, and with it comes a broken moan. He covers his face and sits down, shaking all over.

“Peter?” comes a familiar voice, the only voice that doesn’t grate his nerves lately—Karen. “Your heartrate is accelerated, even though you are no longer exerting yourself. You seem to be very anxious. Would you like me to scan the immediate area for possible enemies?”

He manages to swallow, but strains to do so. “No, I’m—I’m okay, don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then, “Peter, your physical state is not fairing very well at all. Has something happened?”

“Nothing happened, Karen, I’m fine.”

“Would you like me to call somebody? I believe Aunt May is not busy at the moment.”

“ _No,_ Karen.”

More silence, before the AI finally concedes. “Alright then, Peter.”

And then he is alone.

He lifts his head up, and they’re almost to Liberty Island, but not quite. Everything is so quiet, and Peter’s too far to shoot a web to get there any faster. He’s left to just sit here, and drink in the quiet, the isolation, the throbbing pain in his chest that makes him want to cry.

There is nothing to comfort him except for the gentle sloshing of waves below him, and the sun that barely peaks out from the armada of heavy clouds spread across the sky.

* * *

Most people probably considered Peter to be pretty fearless, all things considered. Beyond being a literal superhero, who leapt off twenty-story buildings and beat up bad guys on the daily, he was just… bold. He wasn’t scared to raise his hand in class when nobody else seemed to know the answer, and he certainly wasn’t afraid to stick up for those he cared about when they weren’t being treated right.

May always told him, _you inherited all that stupid bravery from your uncle. I don’t know how either of you got by without me._ Tony would always scold him after particularly risky battles, saying, _Jesus, kid, your heart’s bigger than your brain._

He figured he should be flattered. And he knew, on some level, it was true. Of course, with that bravery came a whole lot of recklessness, because he was far from perfect. But then, Peter never really considered himself fearless. Courageous, maybe a little, as much as his ego would allow him to embrace. _Fearless?_ That implied him to lack any sort of fear. And that was definitely not the case.

There were many things Peter feared, all to different extents, some more legitimate than others—but they were still real. And—And one trumped them all, one haunted him incessantly, much more than the others.

Death.

He thought, after some self-reflection, that he was pretty justified in being scared of death. Not only did he risk his life constantly as Spider-Man, but he was also still so young, in the prime of his youth. Peter hadn’t even graduated high school yet—he hadn’t gotten married or bought his first apartment or gone to college. He had his whole life ahead of him, so of course the prospect of having all of that taken away from him worried him.

But it was more than that, too. As much as Peter feared dying in itself, that really wasn’t the heart of it. Maybe it was just his stupidly brave hero persona speaking, but at the end of the day, if Peter had to choose between him or his loved ones—hell, even a stranger off the streets—he would choose to die in a second if it meant saving someone else.

Because Peter feared death, yes. But he really feared the death of _others._

It didn’t help that his close friends and family, like Ned and May, were aware of his secret identity and therefore vulnerable because of that. It also really didn’t help that he was friends with other superheroes who were just as liable to losing their lives in combat as he was.

And he knew it was part of the job description. Being a hero meant that sometimes, the right choice was to put others first and sacrifice everything to protect them.

It still scared him, though.

There was one time he recalled vividly, maybe a few months before Thanos had first appeared on Earth, when Peter and Tony had been dealing with some low-level threat. A few robbers had raided a very expensive jewelry store that was several stories tall.

The thing that caused worry was the fact that they had gotten their grubby hands on some very dangerous weapons. Tony had said he suspected them to be leftovers from 2012, which was frustrating, because they had just taken down the Vulture’s monopoly not too long ago.

Everything had quickly gotten out of hand. The burglars got trigger happy and started harming civilians. One of them used a weapon that sent shockwaves across the immediate vicinity, like the force of an earthquake concentrated into a single beam of energy. Peter had been among the first-responders because it wasn’t too far from Queens, and Tony had been there about fifteen minutes later after the minor robbery transformed into a dangerous terrorist attack.

They quickly incapacitated the majority of the gang, but at that point a small fire had started within the building and Peter could still hear civilians trapped inside. He also had a creeping suspicion that they didn’t get all of the involved accomplices yet.

He said, frantically, “I’m gonna help everyone in there!” and sprung through the window towards the cries for help within. He heard Tony yell something at him but he was in too much of a hurry to pay attention.

After a few minutes of running around—which only grew harder and harder as the fire began to spread and the walls and ceiling grew weary—Peter finally discovered a mother and her small child, who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. The mother’s leg was trapped under a collapsed beam, immobilizing her and leading to the little girl’s obvious panic. They both lit up upon seeing him though, which relieved Peter a bit, because anything to calm them down would help.

“Hey,” he said, tenderly, as he made a beeline for the large wooden beam. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you guys outta here. Just hold on.”

He started to push against the beam, which easily caved to his strength. It groaned before thudding down hard on the opposite side of the floor. When he turned back to the civilians, the mother had tears in her eyes and was clutching her calf painstakingly, but she was smiling.

“Oh, god, thank you Spider-Man.”

Though they couldn’t see it, he smiled right back and gave a mock salute for good measure. “Any time, ma’am. Now let’s get you two outside.”

With the woman’s compliance, Peter helped her to her feet and scooped up the little girl with his free arm, guiding them towards the nearest window to escape. The smoke in there was growing thicker and the child was starting to cough against it. He wanted to move faster, but he couldn’t risk hurting the mother’s leg.

Vaguely, he thought he might’ve heard rapid footsteps from behind, across the room, but he was so focused on the civilians that he didn’t pay it any mind. And then, the sound of a smashing window exploded across the building, and he looked over his shoulder to see Tony gliding in, in hot pursuit.

One of the burglars had gotten back in. And from the looks of it, it was the guy with that shockwave generator. It was a bulky weapon that he could barely hold with his own two arms, but he was clearly in a frenzy to get to the small vault behind the cashier’s counter.

Tony got close but then the man whipped around and pulled the trigger, immediately sending the hero smashing through the wall back outside. Peter was at least grateful for Tony’s armor. The machine even sent tumultuous rumbles throughout the building, briefly making him and the civilians lose their balance.

The little girl shrieked in fear, and that’s when the criminal turned to look at them, clearly not seeing them before. He aimed his weapon and Peter’s heart leapt to his throat.

“Hey, uh,” he swallowed. “Put that down, man. This isn’t gonna end well for you.” Protectively, he herded the woman and her daughter in front of him.

The robber narrowed his eyes, and then placed the nozzle of the weapon against the floor. Realization of what he was planning spread across Peter like ice. He needed to get these people out of here _now._

Just in the nick of time, Tony came bursting back inside and tackled the man to the ground. They struggled for a bit, in which he heard his mentor call to him, “Spidey, _get out of here!_ ”

Hurriedly, Peter began stumbling forward again, and he felt bad because the woman was groaning with pain from the movement, but he didn’t really have any other choice. He figured she’d prefer a broken ankle to dying any day—especially with her own child’s life in question, too. After a few moments he finally reached the window and set the little girl down to smash through it with his elbow. Peering outside he could see firefighters ready to send up a ladder, and he waved frantically to them, elated when they noticed him; he supposed he could thank the vibrant colors of his suit for that.

Unfortunately, it seemed it would take them a few minutes to actually roll the truck over and extend the ladder up to their level. Peter cringed as the building trembled every couple of seconds, and when he glanced back, he saw Tony struggling to get close and having to resort to his repulsor beams to try and do any damage. The robber was wearing strange—if archaic—armor that seemed to protect him well enough.

The walls shook harder than before, as he landed a stronger hit against Tony that shot him across the room to collide against the wall. And then he placed the barrel of it against the floor again.

This was bad. The truck wasn’t ready yet and Peter didn’t want to swing out himself in case Tony needed help (which he clearly seemed to need right now), except he also couldn’t leave the civilians’ side. The fire was worsening by the second and the building was already weak from all the previous shockwaves. A direct hit to the floor would surely collapse the entire thing.

“Spider-Man!” Tony shouted. “Get them _out!_ ”

“I can’t just leave you here!” he shot back.

“ _Go!_ ”

And Peter’s muscles locked up. He looked to the robber, then to Tony, still staggering back onto his feet, and then to the woman and her child. He had only a split second to decide. Under his breath, he hissed out, “Shit,” and leapt out the window.

Immediately after, he shot out a web and glided the girls down to the ground, just as another shockwave boomed across the building and he heard the crumbling of its foundations. When his feet were on asphalt, Peter looked back up to see the store completely collapse in a wave of flames and debris. He felt something sharp shove right through his chest, and seize him completely. His face burned and he lost his breath.

“No, no, _Tony?!_ ” he cried, sprinting towards the collapsed structure. He shoved past all the police and firemen and civilians and vehicles crowding the street, his head thick with pressure and tears welling up in his eyes. Out of desperation, Peter tapped into the comm in his suit. “Tony, Mr. Stark, you there? Are you okay?”

He was met with radio silence. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ this wasn’t happening, this couldn’t happen right now. Not now, not now, he couldn’t be—

There was a silence consuming him, wrapped around him in an airtight bubble, constricting the life out of him. He reached the foundations of the store which could hardly be considered standing anymore and rushed through, searching each mound of rubble and each fallen chuck of cement or wood scattered across the plot.

And for a few moments, Peter forgot how to—how to _live._ He forgot everything except this terrible fear that had seeped into his muscles and bones and poisoned his blood stream. He felt dizzy and sluggish and his head was pounding. But he—he couldn’t stop moving, he needed to find Tony somewhere, because he was in here somewhere, he _had_ to be—

Finally, _finally,_ something shifted. Peter’s breath hitched and he turned to a pile of rubble, and miraculously, something beneath began to push against it. His heart fluttered in his chest and he rushed over to help whatever was trapped inside. It had to be—it had to—

“Mr. S— _Tony._ Holy shit, you’re—

His helmet snapped up as soon as he was freed enough from the debris, and he was met with the sweaty, tired face of Tony, who gave him a worse for wear smile. “I’m fine. Are you fine? The woman and that kid?”

Peter laughed weakly. He felt—obnoxiously weak all over. He felt not okay. “Oh my god, you’re unbelievable. You—You weren’t responding on the comm and I thought—”

“My suit took most of the damage for me,” Tony said, clearly not willing to listen to what he was about to admit. “I’m fine. Mark forty-eight, not so much.”

After helping him to his feet, Peter sighed shakily. “Well, I’m glad. You scared the hell out of me.”

Tony squinted at him disapprovingly. “I don’t think you’re allowed to say that. The amount of times _you’ve_ scared the hell out of _me_ definitely overcompensate for this one time.”

Peter shoved at him playfully. “I—I know, I know. But like… That was kinda crazy. I actually thought for a second that…”

“Kid,” the older man said, placing metal fingers on his shoulder, “I need you to listen to me. I’m not going anywhere for a long time, alright? One day, yeah, I’m gonna kick the bucket. But not yet, not right now. I think—death is kinda overrated, anyways.”

And he knew he was joking, but something about the utterance of that very word, the fact that Tony was so calmly accepting of the fact that he knew he would _die_ eventually, sent chills down Peter’s spine. But he smiled and nodded, because he knew that’s what Tony needed to be reassured that he wasn’t freaked out anymore.

“You’re right, I know.” Peter exhaled slowly.

The ache pressed to his temples lingered for the rest of the day.

* * *

Once Peter reaches the Statue of Liberty, he sort of goes on autopilot. He can feel all the onlookers ogling at him, gaping at the fact that a real Avenger is going for what seems to be a casual visit to a New York landmark, all geared up and ready for action. He distantly hears a few panicked whispers of, _do you think it’s dangerous here? Should we leave?_ But he’s too preoccupied with everything else to worry about them.

He starts to scale the statue. He mimics how he ascended the Washington Monument way-back-when, shooting the occasional web to slingshot himself up faster, and doesn’t stop until he’s at the peak of Lady Liberty’s crown.

It’s freezing. Peter absently wonders if the suit heater is broken, or maybe the cold is too intense to combat anymore. Maybe he’s just… losing his mind.

Karen speaks up again, quiet but concerned, “Are you sure everything is alright, Peter?”

A good few seconds pass before he can even comprehend producing a response. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, then opens it again. It feels like his voice is trapped in his throat, clogging it, keeping down a combustion of emotions he doesn’t know if he’s ready to handle yet that’s bound to be breached any moment.

“I’m…” he gasps, like he’s been deprived of oxygen since the day he came back and Thanos was killed and the universe wasn’t cut in half anymore; like this is the first time he’s really breathed at _all_ since then. “I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t think I’m okay.”

“Would you like me to call for help? I can also provide some strategies to reduce anxiety. You seem to be exhibiting signs of extreme stress.”

He squeezes his chest, struggling to inhale. With a strong intensity, he concentrates on the sky. On the blotches of blue that peek through the gray blanket of clouds. “No, no. I—I think I need to just… be alone for a minute. I think I…”

Tentatively, Peter shuts his eyes. And when he does, he’s back there, in the wreckage of the old compound. There is a lethal silence all around him, and everything’s so red and dark and bleak, and he sees Tony, limp on the ground, the life leeching from his eyes. He sees it all over again, and he feels fresh, hot tears bleed against his mask and stain his cheeks.

“I think I need to grieve.”

There is silence, which he takes as one of understanding from her. Peter opens his eyes and he’s back in New York, in the late afternoon, with the stormy skies up above and the chilly breeze of the winter air. Some pedestrians down below are still staring at him, and with a newfound urgency he decides he needs to remove his mask. So he slides down the spike he’d been standing on until hidden behind the statue’s crown, atop her head. Nobody can see him here.

He peels off his mask and grasps it with both hands, and leans back against the wall of Lady Liberty’s crown, staring up at the sky. Shaking minutely, he brings up one hand to wipe his face of the moisture smeared across it.

“Mr. Stark?” he manages eventually, softly, to the sad sky. “… Tony?”

Peter receives no response, and he figures he should’ve expected as much. He doesn’t—he doesn’t really know how to go about this. He’s experienced loss before; grief. But it feels… different, this time. When he lost Ben, he remembers the pain to be immediate and horrible. He got really mad and depressed and he shut May out for a while, and he did badly in school and it took Spider-Man to really bring him out of that rut. It still hurts to think about Ben sometimes, but he’s accepted it and he deals. He’s mostly recovered.

But—But something about this time is different. He realizes, with this sick feeling churning in his stomach, that he doesn’t think he really processed Tony’s death. Ever. Like—Like he’s still in shock, disbelief, despite it being so long.

The funeral had been an out of body experience. Peter was trapped in this cage of something cold and lonely that he didn’t want to accept, and as soon as he was back home in Queens, he immediately shoved it out of his head. Got back to school and moved on with his life.

He feels awful.

“I’m— _fuck,_ I’m so sorry, Tony,” he murmurs, lip quivering.

Guilt grabs hold of him and it doesn’t let go. It curls around him like a snake and jabs its fangs into his skin, filling him with this disgusting, heavy feeling that floods his whole system. _He feels awful._ He—He can’t stand himself all of the sudden, because Tony is fucking _dead_ and he’s just been living his life like nothing’s wrong, like everything’s fine, like the whole world isn’t screwed up because Tony isn’t here anymore.

God. _Tony isn’t here anymore._

Peter sobs into his hands, and this massive wave of despair surges up his entire body, burying him and consuming him wholly. It’s too much he almost can’t take it. He can’t stand the idea of not having him here anymore. No more laughing together, no more taking down villains together, no more _Tony._

Everything is so wrong now. He hates that this is reality, and this is how it’ll always be forever now. He hates how he took his last moments with him for granted, because he didn’t even know back then that those would _be_ the lasts of his time with Tony. He never could’ve believed that he was spending his last Friday-mechanic-movie-baking night with him, or fighting by his side for the last time, or—or spending their last Christmas together last year.

He hates himself for not dealing with this until now. He hates that he let himself get so absorbed in everything else in the world before he let himself digest the idea that Tony is gone, he died, he’s never coming back. He hates that Pepper lost the love of her life and that Morgan won’t have a father anymore and that the Avengers will never be quite the same without him. He hates that _he_ will never be quite the same without him.

But Peter also knows that it’s time. He knows, as painful as it is, that this is simply how the world works. He knows all he can do now is process and heal, just like he did with Ben.

So he lets a few more tears fall, and cries to the heavens until he’s ready to go home.

* * *

When he gets back to the apartment, it’s very late and smells like barbecue pork. Aunt May is cleaning the kitchen and seems a little frazzled, but not too upset that Peter returned home so late. She smiles fleetingly at him, sorting away containers of food to be saved as leftovers.

“Hey! How was that math test today?”

He shrugs his backpack onto the couch. He’s back in his casual attire, his suit stored in the bag. “Fine. Pretty easy, actually.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I wish I’d been as much of a brainiac as you are when I was in school. Calculus never came easy to me.”

Instead of producing a response, Peter just sits at the counter, resting his cheek in his palm and scratching at an insignificant spot of grime. Some time passes before May finally seems to be wrapped up with cleaning, and she leans on the counter too, opposite from him and peering intently at him. She stares for a little while, like she’s trying to solve whatever’s going on in his head, but he thinks _he_ can’t even figure out what’s going on in his head, except that it’s too much.

“So, Christmas is quickly approaching,” May says, and he appreciates that she’s not trying to pry. “I thought maybe this weekend we could frost some sugar cookies?”

His mouth goes dry. Ice shudders down his throat and settles painfully in his chest, nipping at his every breath.

Seeming put off by his lack of reply, she continues, “… We could invite over some friends? Maybe play some movies or music, too?”

Peter is reeling. He can’t— _he can’t—_

Suddenly May is at his side, and her arm is wrapped around his slumped shoulders. She is warm, radiating light and security onto him.

“Pete,” she says, her voice low and easy. “What’s the matter?”

With his best effort, he inhales deeply, and the oxygen ricochets down his throat. His face burns again, more intensely than before, and he loathes it. Despite himself, Peter decides to look up at her, and as he meets her eyes he feels his own well up with pools of tears. She frowns empathetically at him and does her best to thumb them away.

“I don’t…” he croaks, and _fuck_ he sounds pathetic, but he feels like all of this has been building up for so long and he just can’t take it anymore, can’t take pretending that he’s fine and he’s moved on because he _hasn’t,_ he hasn’t even _begun_ to accept a world without Tony. He feels like he’s completely unraveling. “I don’t think I can make sugar cookies this year.”

May wets her lips and takes a seat at the barstool beside him, streaming fingers through his messy hair. “Is it because of-?”

Peter clenches his jaw and his gaze falls to the ground.

There is a long stretch of nothing, and then he feels his aunt’s hand slot beneath his chin and lift it up to look at her again. She uses her other hand to stroke the side of his face. “Okay. It’s okay, honey, we don’t have to do cookies this year. In fact, why don’t we… Why don’t we start a new tradition? One that’s special.”

That sounds—that sounds fine. He thinks he can handle that. Feeling a little self-conscious, Peter wipes at his eyes and sniffs. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” May says. “You’ll have to help me figure that out. Maybe Ned or MJ will have some ideas.”

Peter nods and responds with, “Okay,” and he closes his eyes as she leans forwards to kiss him on the forehead.

He thinks, this will work out. This year, he just isn’t really ready to make sugar cookies. Maybe one day, in the future, he will be ready again. But right now he can’t, and—and that’s okay. Peter tells himself, assuredly _, I’m allowed to feel like shit. It’s okay for me to take some time. There’s nothing wrong with letting the grief get the best of me, because… because I’m human and sometimes there’s nothing I can do about it._

And in the meantime, he figures, he can start some new traditions with those that are still here with him.


End file.
